


show me what you've got, spaceman

by cartoonheart



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartoonheart/pseuds/cartoonheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants to punish him, and send him on his way, with perhaps some ringing lesson of contrition to keep him company. But there is too much hope in his voice, buried perhaps, but she can hear it, and she can never quite resist the pull of the universe with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	show me what you've got, spaceman

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't go where I plotted it to go, and for that reason it isn't really my favourite. But I hope you like it regardless.
> 
> Not really any Series 8 spoilers, just speculation based on what is generally available.
> 
> I'm also happy to take prompts for this pairing if people want to throw them in my direction.

"Stop staring at me."

"I'm _not_ staring." The silence is punctuated by a sharp exasperated exhale, followed by his long fingers tapping against the console. The pull of a lever. If he had been staring, she knew he certainly wasn't now.

"You _were_ staring, then," she retorts, a slightly raised eyebrow merging with a twist of a smile.

"I wasn't staring. I was just... looking." Somewhere in this conversation, the balance of power has swung heavily in her favour. Clara can't deny that she's enjoying it.

"Yeah, at me. With your eyes and things."

"Well, what else would I be looking at you with?" the Doctor growls finally, warily. Clara watches as he shuffles awkwardly out of her eyeline, his silver head ducking behind the centre column. The machine is lit up in a strange orange colour now, just one of the many changes she is still getting used to.

"So you admit to looking at me then?" Success is hers, she knows, and feels a momentary surge of pride to have bettered him even in such a petty argument.

He pointedly ignores her, as she expected he would. She sees a flash of red from the lining of his coat as he spins back into focus. His shoulders are upright, elegant, she notes; a slope her hands want to trace.

"Why would I need to look at you, Clara? I know you're still short, still bossy. Your nose is still funny."

As witty retorts go, it isn't his best. But the man is still finding his feet, so she'll cut him some slack.

\--

"You can't do that!" she hisses, watching him strip apart the back of her television like an errant repairman.

His eyebrows furrow impressively. "You said there was nothing good on!"

"And so pulling apart my television is going to help with that how?"

There is a flurry of sparks, and some sort of weird hissing noise. The Doctor mutters ominously, retrieving his sonic screwdriver from the inside of his jacket. Clara steps back less she gets caught in the crossfire. If she wasn't so annoyed she'd probably be amused at the sight of the Doctor on his hands and knees behind her television, but honestly, she feels like she can't make one little comment these days without the Doctor going off the deep end.

"I only just bought it!" she feels the need to point out, trying to ignore a loud bang that causes even the Doctor to start backwards a bit. She doesn't think her warranty covers random tinkering by time-and-space-travelling aliens.

The Doctor pokes his head up from behind the set and gives her another withering look. "You bought it six months ago, Clara. It's hardly _new_."

She's not sure whether to be more perturbed at the fact that the Doctor keeps some sort of mental tally on the age of her household appliances, or the likely event that he is patronising her. She makes a mental note to keep him away from everything in her kitchen.

"Make us a cup of tea, will you?" he shouts, voice muffled, as a snake of wires are thrown in her direction, clearly to be discarded.

She rolls her eyes and heads out the room. But she can't deny that when he is done, the novelty of a television that can pick up channels from eight different galaxies really isn't something to be sneezed at.

\--

"Clara, Clara, Clara!" 

He comes careening through the door like he's on fire, barely managing to stop himself from the sheer momentum. His shoulder slams into the wooden frame and he winces pathetically, rubs it, before his eyes meet hers with a gaze filled with excitement and impatience.

"Come! Now!" His accent cuts harshly into the consonants, sharp like an alarm. 

She's mortified. Honestly and completely mortified. Not only because he seems to think he can throw commands at her like she is some sort of pet, but also for the fact that she's got a classroom full of students who are now openly staring at this weird figure of a man who calls their teacher by her first name and looks at her like she can save the universe with him.

(She can, but that is _not_ the point.)

"Doctor!" The word is chewed out between her gritted teeth, as she tries to focus his attention on her now quiet classroom. Her palms feel sweaty. The sense of losing control of this situation is acute, but that is mostly how he always makes her feel these days, in more ways than one.

"What?" he barks, annoyed at the hold up. His eyes haven't left hers. He is practically vibrating on the spot with enthusiasm. Despite herself she can't help wonder what has got him so riled up. This Doctor is usually much more collected, austere.

She tries to motion with her head towards the twenty pairs of eyes that are no doubt taking in this scene with a mixture of bewilderment and amusement. "I'm busy."

It is only then he seems to register the gaggle of school children taking in their every move.

"Can't it wait?" he suggests blithely, wringing his hands in an effort to get some movement from her. Her eyes fly to those long elegant fingers despite herself, stomach churning.  
"Not that your education isn't important," he finishes reluctantly, directing his comment to the class at large, who titter quietly.

"Can't _you_ wait?" she flings back, advancing quickly and pressing both of her hands to his chest and bodily forcing him out the door. He doesn't resist her touch, just lets her, which must be a first, she thinks. His eyebrows crumple in concern, like he can't possibly understand why she's upset with him.

"But Clara!" he starts, and her heart softens a little at the tender way her name sounds on his tongue. "You have got to see this! Once in a lifetime opportunity and if we go now I-"

The look in her eyes seems to stop him, and at the back of her mind, she remembers that the door of her classroom is still wide open and no doubt they are still very much the centre of attention. She has enough sense to twist around and pull it shut before she turns on him.

"Doctor. I am busy. Busy! I have a job and I can't just leave it. And you? You have a time machine!"

"But Clara-" he whines, palms open and splayed towards her.

"No, don't start on at me about how jobs are boring and a waste of time, because I am not going over that again with you. Here. In the school corridor."

He deflates a bit, like her annoyance has finally registered somewhere in the back of that giant brain of his. He frowns, then sighs, nods his head in acceptance, like some sort of wounded puppy.

"Later then?" 

She wants to punish him, and send him on his way, with perhaps some ringing lesson of contrition to keep him company. But there is too much hope in his voice, buried perhaps, but she can hear it, and she can never quite resist the pull of the universe with him.

She lets the tension drain from her shoulders, her fists unfurl.

"Come back in an hour, yeah?"

The smile she gets is worth it.

\--

"His name is Danny. Danny Pink."

"Pink?!" Clara doesn't even need to look at the Doctor to know the expression on his face. The features might still be new to her, but they have become almost second nature in a very short time.

"Is that funny?"

"It's kind of funny, yes."

"Well, ha bloody ha ha," she mutters, trying not to catch the Doctor's reflection in her mirror. She can see him in the corner of her vision, hovering over her right shoulder, hands in pockets, coat lining on display. Honestly, he was so pompous sometimes. 

Clara focuses on putting on her earrings, fixing her hair, anything to ignore his presence. After a moment, she hears a rustle of movement, the notion that he is pacing up and down her carpet, eyeing up the contents of her bedroom. The TARDIS is jammed in the corner, the light nearly brushing the ceiling. The whole situation is just very bizarre.

"Where are you going then?" His question is asked too casually to be casual. The Doctor didn't _do_ casual, not by a long shot. She wasn't sure he knew how. She hears him flicking through a book on her shelf. His back is to her.

"Just out to dinner."

"So original," the Doctor retorts, heavy with sarcasm. "Not exactly imaginative, is he, this Mr Pink?"

Clara ignores him, reaching for her perfume. 

"I could take you somewhere far more exciting than dinner down the road," he boasts with two quick strides towards the TARDIS, like they could go right this instant if she gave him the word.

"Not the point, Doctor."

He mutters something that she can't quite catch and he is at her shoulder again, leaning over so that his face is level in the mirror next to hers. His wide eyes are like ice, studying her. She feels the warm exhale of his breathe on the back of her ear, and her insides twist without warning. She moves away quickly, looking around for her shoes.

"Don't worry about me," Clara suggests, just looking for something - _anything_ \- to say to shake the weird vibe from the room. She's not really convinced the Doctor is worried about her, but even if he was, she knows well enough by now that he'd never show it. 

He stands like a statue as she uses him as a balancing post, sliding on her high heels. She can feel his upper arm tense under her touch, but he doesn't protest. She knows he isn't the hugging kind, but honestly, a little tactility wouldn't kill him now and then. With her shoes on she feels taller, more confident, but even with the now diminished height difference between them, he still seems to fill the space in a way that his previous body never quite managed. He looks at her, expression flat and unreadable, but not unkindly. She feels a surge of affection for him.

"I'll see you on Wednesday, okay?" She smiles up at him, and he blinks slowly, once then twice before nodding his head. His posture is stiff, but he doesn't move away from her, arms hanging from his sides. His lips are parted, like he wants to say something, but doesn't.

She's not sure why she does it, but she finds herself on her tiptoes, one hand reaching out to touch the plain of his cheek, and her lips pressing a soft kiss on the other. Something about it is instinctive, even if she's never done it before - not with this him, this face. 

He accepts it quietly, which even at the last moment isn't something she's sure he would do. Clara can't help but notice the way his eyelids flicker at the contact, and then close, that his shoulders drop as if a weight had been lifted from him. She knows that she has lingered too long, that her nose is still pressed against the skin of his cheek, and that he smells like nothing and yet like the stars. 

She pulls away, and feels a swell of sadness for this man. The lonely god, who cannot be alone. 

\--

He takes her to a planet where, for once, they don't end up running for their lives. Everything is calm, and not manic, and he's less spiky than usual, practically nice. 

It isn't that she thinks he doesn't like her. She knows he does, knows he wouldn't keep coming back for her if he didn't. But sometimes, after they bicker and moan at each other for hours on end, it is easy to forget what he is to her. Not that that is easily definable these days.

Clara can't pretend she doesn't miss the way he used to hold her hand, the way he used to reach for it like it was a habit he could never quite shake. She reaches for his more now, and although he never resists, she always feels it is a concession that he grants, rather than anything he actively seeks. She knows he is a new man, and she knows that he does still need her, but sometimes she just wishes he wouldn't insist on smothering those desires deep down behind such a brash exterior.

\--

"You fight like you've been married for years," someone tells them once. A woman sharing their prison cell, to be precise. Clara might have been more amused at the comment had it not been for the potentially deadly peril of the situation, and the Doctor's apparent nonchalance.

The Doctor scoffs at the remark. He's sitting propped against a wall, a picture of calm, watching Clara pace up and down the cell like a madwoman.

"You'd be so lucky," she throws at him, peering out the tiny window on the cell door. The walls are blindingly white. Inside the cell the Doctor's black and scarlet coat is jarring against it.

"You'd be so lucky," he retorts, hardly his best work but effective enough to rile her. "Can you stop pacing please? It's annoying."

"Maybe I'd stop pacing if I wasn't so worried about being zapped to pieces by a giant laser!"

"Don't be ridiculous," he responds, patting a space on the floor next to him. "They prefer maiming to instantaneous death here anyway."

She would have thrown something at him if there had been anything to hand. "That's not helpful!"

He frowns at her, confused. "I wasn't trying to be helpful. Just factual."

Their cellmate looks perturbed at the exchange, but gives Clara a knowing glance nevertheless. 

\--

"I am glad you're okay," he says afterwards, a guiding hand on her back as he opens the TARDIS door for her. It is about the most physical contact he has offered up all day, all week, and although she is absolutely shattered beyond belief, the fact that he's really trying means the world to her.

Clara grants him a smile, her eyes taking in the tired lines on his face, his unkempt shock of silver hair. He had been worried, she knows. More than usual this time.

"I'm glad you're okay too," she concedes, twisting into the hold he has around her back, and sliding her arms around his narrow midsection. He is warm and reassuring and she hears the thump of his heartbeats against her ear. There is a hesitation, but it seems to pass, as she feels his arms envelop her shoulders, and a brief kiss pressed into her hairline.

It feels like the universe, in his arms.

\--

She's forgotten something, she knows, but for the life of her she cannot remember what. She can't even remember if it was important, and the feeling nags at her. She mentally goes through the piles of papers and books in her arms, searching for a reminder. Her students weave around her, clearly aware of her distraction. The corridors slowly empty out as they all filter away to lunch.

No, she still can't remember. 

All of a sudden, a large hand grabs her left forearm and tugs, and despite herself, she can't help but give a little shriek of surprise. Her eyes close involuntarily but open quickly enough to see she is being pulled into a darkened broom cupboard and the door slammed behind her. 

There is a racket of objects from in front of her, and then a light flicks on from a single bulb dangling overhead. 

It's him. Of course it's him. 

"You didn't tell me Pink was a soldier!" he hisses, sonic screwdriver in one hand and the other wildly gesturing to nothing in particular. The broom closet has flimsy looking shelves lining the walls, and a small collection of buckets and mops in the corner. Clara leans back onto one wall to let her heart rate settle.

"Wait a minute," she says, finally having a chance to take in the situation. "What are you wearing?"

The Doctor glances down at himself, offhand, like he's forgotten. "That's not the question, Clara. The question is why didn't you tell me Pink was a solider?"

She decides to play his game. Just this once, because she'll never get out of this broom cupboard if she doesn't. Her muscles ache so she pops her books and papers down on the nearest empty shelf and folds her arms across her chest. The Doctor is no expert on human body language it seems, because it doesn't seem to deter him.

"Well?" he prompts, folding his own arms, mimicking her. He is wearing a long janitor's overcoat over his tailored trousers and boots, and his hair seems even wilder than usual.

"Why would I need to tell you that Danny _used to be_ a soldier?"

He ignores her pointed use of the past tense.

"You know how I feel about soldiers, Clara!" 

Of course she does, but it is hardly relevant. 

"Well, it is just as well you're not the one dating him then, isn't it?" she fires back, tired and confused with this sudden line of questioning. 

"Don't be cute," the Doctor scolds, eyes narrowing.

"It isn't really any of your business though, Doctor, is it?"

His jaw clenches, and it is unmistakable even in the shadowy gloom of the cupboard. He turns from her, as if he wants to pace but finds there isn't enough space for him to do so. He jams his sonic screwdriver back into the pocket of his ridiculous overcoat.

"Doctor, are you _jealous_?" Clara barely knew she was going to say it before the words are out of her mouth, but once they are, she could hardly hold the idea back in her mind. It would explain a few things, and certainly this weird behaviour - the way he kept popping up in her life outside of their normal schedule. Outside the restaurant of her and Danny's second date last week, for example. Like the situation hadn't been awkward enough.

The Doctor is lost for words, and in that moment, he reminds her so much of his previous face, the foppish boy who had held her hand across the galaxies far more than he needed to. Oh, he was still in there, wasn't he? Sometimes it was easy for her to forget that. 

"Me? Jealous?" He stumbles ungracefully over the words, like the mere thought of them in his mouth was altogether too much. 

"It's okay to admit it, if you are," she goads him, unable to help herself. She doesn't even know if it is quite the truth, and certainly even if it is, she's not sure of the extent of it. Does he resent all her time spent elsewhere away from him? Or specifically her time with Danny? It is hard to tell.

"I'm not-I'm not-I'm... not. Not jealous." The out of character stutter only undermines him, and Clara feels a pang of guilt, until she remembers that he's shown up yet again at her job and suddenly there are a whole load more questions that she has to ask.

"What are you wearing that for?" She nods at the overcoat, which seems a shade too big for him. He has buttoned it all the way up which doesn't help, and she wonders if he still has his normal coat on under it. She can't quite tell in the dim light.

He seems grateful for the change in subject, and a chance to regain some foothold in this conversation.

"Monsters," he drawls ominously, drawing himself up to his full height. There is more than a hint of manic delight in his voice.

"Monsters?" she says sceptically, even though she should know better by now. "At school? At _my_ school?"

"Shush!" he lowers his voice to a gruff whisper, even though there is no one else in the room. She leans in closer to hear him. "They are probably here because of you, to be honest. Well, you and me. They feed on time energy."

"Time energy?"

"You and I have a lot of it, quite tasty snacks, actually. Me more than you, obviously. They'll be tracking us."

"And so you are going to track them, tracking us?"

"Exactly!" he agrees, beaming with pride at her quick conclusion. "So I'll be sticking close by for a bit."

"Pretending to be a janitor?" Naturally, she's dubious.

He looks distinctly offended, which is saying something considering his default expression usually hovers somewhere near that anyway. "I'm perfectly capable of pretending to be a janitor."

She rolls her eyes. "You're an alien with a time machine that cleans up after you. Forgive me for doubting you. You know they don't have sonic mops on Earth, right?"

The Doctor looks guilty, eyes flicking momentarily over to the corner of the room. Clara shakes her head, knowing he's probably already adapted half the items in this cupboard to technology that shouldn't really exist on this planet.

"How long will it take, do you think?" 

He shrugs his shoulders. "Don't know. A few days, a week? Why? Do you want to get rid of me? Am I cramping your style?" The words sound petty, but it is more the bitter snarl of his mouth that bothers her. She doesn't know why he is being quite so childish so she opts to ignore it.

"Where's the TARDIS?"

The Doctor looks shifty, much like the time she'd questioned him about what turned out to be a tramp's coat. "Nearby," he answers with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"It's parked in my front room, isn't it?"

He has the good grace to look a little sheepish. "You might not want to have any visitors over for a while."

Her minds flits to Danny, and then she feels guilty for it, just a little. The Doctor must know she is thinking it too, because he's scurried off to the far end of the cupboard and is rifling through an open box.

"Ah-ha, here!" he says triumphantly after a moment and shuffles back over to her, taking her wrist and pressing something into her open palm. It is a circular brooch, innocuous at first, but the longer she looks at it, the more she can sense its otherworldliness. It seems to change colour the longer she looks at it, like a swirling galaxy, like the nebula that the Doctor had taken her to on their last trip.

"It's beautiful," she can't help but say, her fingertips brushing gently across the surface. The swirls inside the glass seem to ripple with the motion, tracking her touch, and her heart stutters a little. She glances up at him, his eyes trained steadily on her. "Thank you, Doctor."

He smiles softly, pleased. "It will turn red if you are close to anything seeking out your time energy."

Ha! Of course she should have realised that he would never give her a present unless there was a specific reason. Clara doesn't know why she feels a little disappointed. 

The Doctor pats the pocket of his overcoat. "It will send a signal to my sonic and I'll come find you."

Despite her momentary disappointment, she can't help but smile at his practical thoughtfulness. "I love it, thank you. But couldn't I just phone you?"

"Ah-"

"You broke your phone, didn't you?"

"Firstly Clara, a time traveller really shouldn't carry around a mobile phone. It is so-"

"Lost it?"

He rubs his hand over his eyes, like he's exhausted, before gesturing over to the corner.

"You used its parts to make sonic mops, didn't you?"

She's still laughing as she leaves the cupboard, gingerly shutting the door behind her. She probably looks like a crazy person, smiling to herself, and of course that is exactly when Danny sees her.

Lovely sweet Danny, who looks at her like she hung the moon, even though she is still figuring out how she feels about him. She quickly shoves the Doctor's brooch into her jacket pocket. 

"What were you doing in the janitor's cupboard?" Danny asks, his expression a mixture of confusion and the unmasked delight in seeing her. 

Clara's still trying to think of a plausible explanation, when the Doctor decides to pop his head out of the cupboard, bellowing "Clara!", before realising she is still right in front of him. Danny's eyebrows rise even higher, and Clara can't help but notice that the Doctor's own brows lower in a deep frown at the sight of Danny.

"Yes?" She tries to ask calmly, as if this situation is not the most awkward thing she had encountered in a long time. 

The Doctor thrusts her papers and books at her - the ones she had put down earlier. "You forgot these."

"Oh, thanks." She tries not to notice the way his hand brushes pointedly against hers in the exchange, and the way his eyes don't leave Danny's, like a challenge. Clara tries to resist rolling her eyes. There is a long moment of silence between the three of them, the only sound being the distant shouts of the kids outside the building. 

"I... uh, better go." She offers up lamely, not even addressing it to one man or the other. Danny seems perplexed by the whole situation: the wild-haired janitor, the broom cupboard, and her emergence from it. 

Her words seem to break the Doctor out of his spell and he catches her eye with a smirk. "I'll see you this evening, Clara. At home. I'll cook."

With that, he disappears with a slam of the door.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

\--

Conveniently, after their encounter at school, the Doctor chooses to make himself scarce that evening. Where he was, she didn't know. He was still somewhere on Earth at least, given the fact that the TARDIS was smack-bang in the middle of her living room, blocking her view of her television.

After a half-hearted hunt inside the machine, Clara gives up and makes herself a strong cup of tea, silently fuming. She's really going to have to teach him something about boundaries, about not interfering in her life, about Danny.

Although, he clearly knows enough about the slow evolution of things between her and Danny to be a pain in the neck about it. But that was him all over. The Doctor was blunt and brash about most things, but any targeted questions with regards to his feelings were swiftly batted away with energetic hand gestures and a prompt change of subject.

Despite her annoyance, Clara still wants to know where he is, and whether he is okay. Surely he wouldn't still be at the school at this time in the evening? She really wouldn't put it past him, but the idea makes her uneasy nevertheless. Not to mention that he isn't including her. As much as she wants to give him a piece of her mind (and he probably knows it), she'd rather be annoyed by his side than annoyed and alone in her flat.

After fifteen or so minutes of consideration, she grabs her keys.

\--

The schoolyard seems eerie in the darkness, a spooky haunted sort of place, plagued with alternating shadows and fluorescent lighting. The security guard waves as she goes by, nodding at her half-hearted excuse that she had left something very important in her classroom.

She can't resist peering in the broom closet again, on the off chance, but it is quiet and empty. 

Trying to narrow down an unpredictable Time Lord's movements is always something she considered part of her skill set, but after half an hour of searching later, in the deepest darkest parts of the school, Clara has found nothing and no one. She keeps a careful eye on the brooch the Doctor gave her, curled up in her right fist just in case, but it is serenely mute on the subject of any nearby danger.

She is about to give up and head back to the parking lot, when she, on a whim, takes a left down the corridor towards her own classroom. Something in her has a hunch, and she feels triumphant at the sight of a sliver of light shining out from under her door.

"Doctor?" she calls, swinging the door inwards carefully, head poking around the corner. But the sight she is greeted with is nothing close to her expectations.

Half the desks are overturned, chairs scattered carelessly about, and pressed against the whiteboard, her handwriting smearing against the back of his coat, is the Doctor. His feet aren't touching the floor, because there is something, some creature, pinning him against the wall with what appeared to be pincers. And oh god, were they _fangs_? Oh god, oh god.

"Clara!" the Doctor half chokes, given the fact that his chest is being pressed against by that, by that thing. Red pustules against a scale-like exterior, and the smell. She won't be able to get it out of her classroom for weeks, she thinks. 

She panics, searching the Doctor's eyes frantically for something, _anything_ to answer the unspoken question: what does she _do_? He seems to be waiting for her to react, which is ridiculous - what is she supposed to do with no weapon and no idea what she is up against? Hit that thing over the back of the head with a chair?

Considering the lack of other options, it seems a good idea as any. The creature has noticed her finally, is flapping its severe jaws in her direction, but it hasn't moved from its position. Time energy she thinks, remembering the Doctor's earlier comments. He is the main meal, and she is only the desert, no rush to get to her yet. 

She circles around behind the creature, trying to avoid what appears to be a shedding of scales on her classroom floor. She picks up the nearest chair and throws it with all her might at the creature's back. It bounces off with minimal fuss, but it is enough to attract its attention, to loosen its grip on the Doctor.

From the corner of her eye, she can see him squirm free, and fall to his knees with a heavy thud and wince. His chest heaves, trying to draw in oxygen to combat being half choked to death. His wide eyes meet hers across the room, checking she is still there, still okay, although she doesn't really know how much longer she can say that. 

"The brooch!" the Doctor manages to yells over the din of the monster's annoyed shrieks. It is painful to her eardrums, piercing to the point where she wants to cover her ears. But she doesn't, she keeps moving, inching around the discarded furniture, trying to keep a distance between that thing and her. Her shaking hands fumble in her jacket pocket, grasping the item. It glows violently red in her palm, and she's momentarily distracted. That split second is enough for the creature to reach out for her, its big monstrous claws easily casting aside a desk, a chair. Something hits her sharp in the shin, and she cries out.

"Throw it here!" the Doctor shouts from the front of the room. She's not sure how many times he's said it, but it feels like an echo in her mind. There is a look of panic on his face that Clara doesn't like. There is a cut over his eyebrow and her heart twists in concern.

"Throw it, throw it!" he requests again, his hands reaching out, still winded and on his knees. She lobs it in his direction, hoping like hell it makes it, and it is that point something connects with her shoulder and she is thrown hard across the room.

It is difficult to tell what happens after that. Her head throbs from the impact, her whole upper body feels numb, beyond pain. She's alive, she's still breathing. She hears the distant hum of the sonic screwdriver, and it somehow calms her. He's close. She can't see him but she knows he is there. Oh god, she doesn't want to die at her school. Who is going to clean all this mess up before class tomorrow?

The sonic whirs, and the creature lets out a high pitch squawk, almost like a bird one of Clara's aunts once had. She used to play with it as a child, talking to it through the cage, running her fingernail along the bars. The squawk twists into a cry of pain, a violent sound of agony, and then there is silence.

Clara loses consciousness.

\--

There are flickers of activity, but the moments are cracked, fleeting. She drifts in and out, light and dark, and the Doctor kneeling over her, his hands on her face. The classroom ceiling with its strangely patterned cork tiles, her hands curled in front of her, the buttons down the front of his shirt.

Then nothing again.

\--  
Everything is too bright when she wakes up, like she's hungover or still drunk or both. Even the motion of grimacing pains her, and she wants to cover her eyes with her hands because her eyelids aren't thick enough to block it all out. She tries, but her limbs feel heavy, weighed down. She grunts with annoyance, and hears movement beside her. She creaks an eye open with great effort, and sees the Doctor standing over her.

"Are you okay?" she asks, noticing the traces of dried blood still on his forehead, on the collar of his white shirt.

His hand moves over the injury, like he's only just noticed it. She doesn't know how long she's been out.

"Not the question, Clara."

"Seems valid to me," she argues half-heartedly, even though it feels like something is sitting on her chest, compressing her. She must sound terrible because his brow creases with uncharacteristic concern. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed she appears to be in. It isn't her own, she knows instinctively. It's too hard. Must be in the TARDIS, she thinks.

"How did I get back?"

"Really, Clara. You seem to be focusing on completely the wrong questions. But, given the bump on the head, I'll let it pass." 

She'd roll her eyes if she had the energy, but then she feels the graze of her fingertips across her brow, tracing her skin, and it provides her a moment of clarity.

"What happened then? What was that thing?"

He smiles in that way that he does, which is not quite a smile, but is as close as he ever gets. Clara feels a surge of satisfaction, despite her grogginess. She was meant to be angry at him, wasn't she? She can't really remember. She tries to sit up, but it is more difficult that she expected. She uses his shoulder as leverage, and tries not to show the onset of dizziness. His face is disapproving but he knows better than to try and stop her.

"Time energy feeding thing, like I told you. It got temporally misplaced somehow, still figuring that part out. Not its fault - it was just hungry."

"And where did it go? I'm assuming its gone?" 

"It's in the brooch!" the Doctor says, practically proudly, and pulls the offending item out of his inner coat pocket. He lays it flat on his narrow palm for her to inspect. It's not glowing red any more, but is almost black. Clara can barely see any movement inside apart from a glimmer of silver here and there.

"In there?" she questions, recoiling a little despite herself. "Is that safe?"

"Well, it's not _un_ safe," he replies, pocketing the brooch again. "It will do for the time being until I can return it to its home planet."

"Kind of you," she murmurs, feeling sleepy again. The Doctor seems to notice and starts to stand up before she grabs his arm. "No, don't go."

He looks at her with an expression that she would class as fondness on anyone else, but on him she can still never be quite sure. "Of course," he says gruffly. "I'll stay."

\--

She wakes up in her own bed, initially disorientated and overly warm, but then she notices it is light outside. What day is it? How long has she been sleeping?

"It's Saturday, don't worry," a low voice says on her opposite side, and she rolls over to see him there, perched on a chair he must have dragged up from her kitchen. He has a book resting open in his lap, and the cut on his forehead looks almost fully healed already.

"How?"

"Time machine. Although I did still miss a bit so I called in sick for you."

"You did? That's a bit..."

"Thoughtful?"

"I was going to say weird."

He shrugs, and closes the book without bothering to mark the page. He throws it on the end of her bed, missing her toes by a narrow margin.

"Are you feeling better then?" He looks at her sharply, suspiciously, like he expects her to lie. 

Clara silently gives herself the once over. No headache, breathing normally, limbs still a bit heavy, but otherwise pretty good considering. "I actually feel fine."

"A few extra days in the vortex will do that to you."

That was surprisingly thoughtful, she has to admit. "Thanks."

His eyes smile, even though his mouth doesn't. "You're welcome."

She sits up, movement easy, and in doing so, notices that she is in her pyjamas. She definitely doesn't recall getting changed at any point, certainly not when she'd apparently been asleep for the past few days.

"Don't worry," he says flatly, his voice betraying nothing. "I didn't look."

She snorts before she can stop herself, because the idea of him changing her clothes seems so foreign to her. It is simultaneously ridiculous and yet very sweet, but it also makes her skin feel like firecrackers are going off underneath. 

"I wouldn't have minded if you did." For some reason she can't resist any opportunity to make him squirm and looks him square in the eye for maximum effect. The past him would have fumbled and muttered something unintelligible before twirling out of her grasp. And previously, this face had all but looked at her blankly, before she had stopped trying. 

But today it seems different. Perhaps today he senses a challenge from her, because Clara, if she had to admit it, feels like she may intend it that way.

So today she gets a raised eyebrow, a lengthy stare in return. "Oh really?" he replies archly, eyes like ice again. Clara suddenly feels she is wading into deeper waters than she had anticipated. He is looking at her as if she were prey, and while she can't deny that it excites her, her nerve endings feel like they are on fire.

She breaks the spell, cheeks hot. "Let's go downstairs and get a cup of tea, yea?"

\--

He doesn't touch her, in that tiny cramped little kitchen of hers. It is like they are both incredibly conscious of the others space, making every attempt to keep a distance between them. Clara suddenly feels like she has lost her mind. She doesn't know if he can sense her heart beating in double time, but perhaps he can. Perhaps it is one of those weird Time Lord things that he surprises her with sometimes, the stuff he senses about others but never talks about. Maybe this is how his hearts feel all the time, that constant impatient rhythm. No wonder he can never keep still, she thinks.

He grabs the cups for her, seemingly familiar with the layout of her kitchen, the careful way everything has its place. But then he's been here before, that fateful Christmas, with his other face, with that even more gangly body. No, now he is more graceful, practically distinguished at times, with those broader shoulders and serious brow. She has never been one for younger men, and Clara can't help but study him when he isn't looking, busying himself with her kettle, her canister of teabags.

The air is oppressive, so she escapes to the living room, but even then his blue box is there. Him, him, him, on all sides.

\--

They sit on her sofa, and Clara thinks that this is probably even worse than before. There is nothing separating them now. No blankets, no brightly lit room. Her living room feels dank and dark in comparison, with its tiny windows and half closed blinds. Everything is half in shadow.

No, no, she corrects. Here is better. Here there is not a bed, and the subtext that it implies, and to be honest, she doesn't know why her brain has gone from zero to one hundred on this subject in the first place. A bit of a flirt, a heated moment that she has probably misread, and her mind is already going off on wild adventures. She can't lie and say it hadn't happened before, but a girl is allowed to daydream, right? She tightens the belt of her dressing gown around her waist, grateful for the extra layer. 

He even puts out coasters on her coffee table, for god's sake, she thinks. _Coasters_. It is the most domestic thing she has ever seen him do, and that includes fixing her bathroom sink that one time. 

"Are you really alright, Clara?" he says finally into the echoing silence that seems to be eating them both up alive. She feels a rush of relief flood through her body. No, everything is normal, she thinks. Nothing weird is going on, I'm just still recovering from a knock on the head.

"I'm fine, Doctor. I'm really fine," she nods, curling her hands closer around her hot tea and taking a sip. She tries not to think about how his accent sounds over her name, the way he says the vowels like no one else she has ever heard. Her name feels like a gift in his mouth. "Are _you_ okay?"

He seems jarred by her question, like he always forgets that his well-being matters too.

"I feel guilty," he answers finally, placing his cup down and springing to his feet. He begins to pace across from her.

She wants to say something about how guilt seems to be this face's default setting, with all his talk of being or not being a good man. But Clara can tell it isn't the right time. He seems genuinely bothered by something.

"Why?"

He looks up, eyes sad but intense as ever. "I needed you there with me, but I was too proud to ask. We would have been fine, the two of us, to sort that mess out. But instead I got myself into trouble and you got hurt and..."

"I'm fine, Doctor, I told you." She puts her cup down on the table, and wiggles her fingers as if to prove her point. "See? It all worked out in the end."

"But..." he pivots on the spot, back and forward, back and forward, the red lining of his coat flashing with each movement, "... what I'm trying to say... what I _mean_ to say, Clara, is that I'm better with you there. I don't just need you to help me, but you make me want to be better. I feel lost otherwise."

She's speechless, but undoubtedly flattered. 

"I don't like feeling this way," he confesses suddenly, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, and she sees so much of that previous boyish face in this newer one. In that stubbornness, and the reluctance to give in to anything that might require the letting go of a secret. But no, she sees him. She promised. She sees him for who he is now and she loves him for that.

Standing up, Clara crosses the room, arms folded tightly around her waist, as if they are the only things holding her upright, to keep her from chickening out. 

"Is that why you are jealous of Danny?" Once again, the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, but she knows it is a question that she needs an answer to. Clara feels somewhat guilty herself for going straight for the jugular, but it seems like one of those moments where if she doesn't do it now, she may never get another opportunity.

He splutters and scoffs, but the more derision he attempts, the more he answers the question for her. Perhaps she already knew the answer. 

"No," he gets out eventually, stretching the sound out in a harsh exhale. "Jealous, no. I'm not...I'm not."

She steps in closer to him, her bare toes only just grazing the tips of his shoes, and he glances down.

"Your toenails are _pink_ ," he murmurs, with a resignation that she knows can only be him reading far too much into something completely mundane.

"No," she says, grabbing him by the sleeve, and forcing him to look at her, to stay on track. "Don't change the subject. Say it. Say what you mean."

By the expression on his face, he knows he is cornered, and that there is only one true path this conversation can take if he ever wants to feel content again. The struggle is written all over his face, and for a moment, she wants to do the hard work for him, pull the words out of his mouth herself, but she can't and she won't. She needs this just as much as he clearly needs to say it. She has never tried to put her life on hold for him, as much as the temptation was there. But she also knows that Danny, dear sweet Danny, will never get a fair chance, the chance he deserves, if she has a sense that the Doctor needs her more.

"You're _mine_ ," he says forcefully, suddenly, with a intensity that scares her. He still isn't touching her, and for a moment she is glad of it. She feels possessed, and encompassed and it is disconcerting. It might be the truth, that she is his, deep down, but it is not the answer to the question. There has always been more to them than a simple companionship, as much as they have both tried to pretend otherwise. The truth is deeper, more twisted, with roots as long and as intertwined as the oldest of galaxies.

Clara shakes her head, trying to figure out how to make him see. "No, that's not how it goes. You know how it goes, Doctor."

Confusion crosses his face, but it is momentary, fleeting, before his expression seems to align itself with the realisation. His sharp eyes meet hers, a quirk at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm yours," he answers, with a sigh of relief, like a burden has been lifted. "I am yours. If you will have me."

"That's better," she smiles, heart in her mouth, in her hands, in a space outside of her body. She reaches for him.

\--

"Whatever happened to 'Clara, I'm not your boyfriend'?" she teases, looking down at his long-fingered hands playing with the tie of her robe, before moving outwards to the curve of her waist. It probably isn't the right moment to mock him, but that has never stopped her before.

He mutters something unintelligible against her hairline, and it is hard to care about whatever his spiky retort might be when his lips are on her skin and the heat of him is so close. 

"Didn't think you'd like the face," he repeats, clearly wanting her to hear him after all. Her heart swells at the bittersweet confession, the idea that he could ever think that she wouldn't want him. But it's true, she had given him reason enough to doubt her too, back then, back before she really saw him. 

"I think I've just proven how much I like your face," she smiles, tilting her chin up, her nose tucked under his chin. She can barely reach his mouth on her tiptoes, but he bends down to accommodate her willingly, hands pressing tightly on her lower back, pulling her up and closer and into him. 

His lips are soft in the way that his words rarely are. It is an odd contradiction, but one she is more than happy to accept. The Doctor has always been a contradiction, in all his faces. The boy, the man, the immortal god. The lonely traveller, the saviour of worlds, the oncoming storm. He has always been everything at once, and right now, he is hers. 

Clara feels like this was always inevitable somehow, like this was always meant to happen, in order for the universe to make sense. She was born to save him, to fracture herself for all the versions of him. But perhaps the one constant reality was that she was destined for this face: the face that wasn't supposed to exist but does because of her. He was born for her, from her, bound to her.

His hands are warm where they press her skin, cupping her cheeks, her neck. Her pulse quickens. His sound of his hearts thrums through her own chest, scrambling to close the gap. She moves to the buttons of his coat, hands shaking, but somehow manages them one by one. It falls heavily to the floor at their feet, the red lining violent beneath them. The situation feels strange, like finally seeing the truth about something that had been in front of you the entire time. But it is a good truth, a real truth, the only one.

"Clara," his voice is hoarse, lost, his hands forcing her robe from her shoulders, pushing it down and down and off to join his coat. "I need you." The confession is low and desperate, like he is ashamed of needing her, of needing anyone. 

"Please," he continues, like he feels she might refuse him, despite her keen response. "I have always-"

He loses the words when she finds his mouth again. She doesn't need that confession from him. It isn't important: the how, the when, the why. Clara doesn't want him to unburden himself because he thinks she needs to hear it. She knows it all already, even if it had only been subconsciously at first.

"Concentrate," she smiles against his lips, moving her fingers around the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt. She aches for the skin beneath, the way the muscles and sinews move beneath it. Clara feels him sigh against her, like relief, his long fingers capturing her hair, tugging gently, moving her closer. 

"So bossy," he manages to say between kisses, voice low. His free hand works the buttons on her pyjama shirt, and Clara wishes that she'd been wearing something more glamorous. Not that he ever notices what she wears anyway. He's never shown any interest in her clothes, apart from this newly confessed urge to remove them.

Skin is found, his palms smoothing a path across her collarbone, and lower, teasing, meticulously, like he is studying her, creating a memory of her. Each time she gasps, he smiles against her throat, his teeth grazing and breath hot. When her hands splay across his bare spine, she gets a similar reaction from him and it feels like a satisfaction she has never quite known before.

When it is clear the practicalities are against them, they fall towards the nearest soft surface, her couch, cushions scattering and clothes trailing behind. It becomes hot and urgent. She feels like he might vanish, like he is burning brightly only to fade and Clara wants to take it all in in case it is her last chance, her only chance. It seems he feels the same, movements harried and desperate, wanting to bury himself under her skin.

"Hurry up," she panics, when his presence is not enough and she needs everything. It isn't a demand, more of a plea, and it feels so liberating to lose her mind like this, with him, not when control is usually everything. 

But he understands, he must do. He is perceptive despite the impression he attempts to give otherwise. His fingers know what she wants, what she needs, and his touch is a relief, even if she still wants more. The weight of him against her is long awaited, familiar. Clara gasps and shudders against him, his eyes never leaving hers, as if collating her each and every reaction, grading it for effectiveness. She would consider it disconcerting if he wasn't doing such a good job otherwise. 

"More," she manages to choke out, and Clara swears she sees a smirk cross his face, a hint of amusement in his eyes, before he presses a rough kiss to her temple. But she's the boss, this time at least, and when he finally enters her, it is his eyes that glaze over and lose themselves.

Her name trips off his tongue, mindlessly, like a prayer, like a reverence. His breath is hot on her neck until his mouth finds hers again, his fingertips somehow everywhere at once. He moves like he knows her, and of course he does, even if it hasn't always been in this way, not until now. But it feels like he can see inside her, sense what she needs. Clara would cry if she had any capacity left, but she can't, she's on overload. It is so much more than she has ever expected in her life from anyone, let alone from him - the man who had pushed her away, and yet could not bring himself to maintain the distance. 

They fall together, harshly, breathlessly, like a galaxy forming and unforming. No, but no, they are a fixed point in time if she has anything to say about it. His hair is soft under her fingertips, his jawbone nestled into her shoulder.

"Your couch is too small," he moans after several long minutes punctuated only by their laboured breathing and the tick of her kitchen clock in the distance. 

She laughs, despite herself, the way they are twisted up together, him half on top of her to prevent them from tumbling to the floor in a naked heap. "You weren't complaining before."

"I'm not complaining now."

"Didn't sound like it."

He raises his head to look at her, eyebrows furrowed as usual, but face softer than she has ever seen it. "Believe me, I have no problem with the current, uh... situation."

"Situation?" Clara prods, despite herself.

He's flustered, which seems ridiculous considering their position. "You know what I mean."

"Well, you need to move."

"What?! Why?"

"My arm is going to sleep."

He starts up quicker than she would have liked, but it does ease the ache that has been causing the pins and needles forming in her fingertips. But he's already reaching for his shirt, the rest of his clothes. His back is pale and taut, distinctly strong by wiry. Clara presses her palm flat between his shoulder blades, a silent request for him to stop.

"Upstairs?" She thinks the suggestion in her tone is evident, but apparently it isn't quite enough.

"What for?"

She rolls her eyes, sitting up enough to press her chest against the expanse of his back, a hint, a big massive clue. Realisation dawns in his eyes, his head dips in almost boyish embarrassment. 

Clara smiles. "We'll figure it out as we go, I'm sure."

\--


End file.
